


Holeshot

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [9]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Dom/sub, F/M, Leather Kink, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Slapstick, intergalactic scuzzballs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 04:31:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3964477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days you just need a little stress relief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holeshot

**Author's Note:**

> For Veradune, who prompted: a thing with the leather gloves

He can hear Clara approaching. The rumble of the motorcycle engine, the rev and growl. There’s a cloud of dust, and then there’s her, pulling neatly to a stop in front of the TARDIS.  
  
“You’re late,” he says. He’s standing in the doorway, trying to look disapproving. It’s not working.  
  
“You have a time machine, if you waited that’s on you,” she replies, squeezing past him. A hand trailing absentmindedly over his chest, snagging a lapel, and dragging him after her.  
  
As he tumbles along behind her, he takes quick note: boots, tight jeans, leather jacket, leather gloves. A helmet that accentuates her overlarge head. It’s okay, he likes her big head.  
  
She flings him against the console and pulls her helmet off - it leaves her with terrible hair, both sticky-uppy and flat, but he’s not entirely sure what his own hair is doing at the moment so it wouldn’t be fair to judge - she pulls her helmet off and then pulls him down for a kiss.  
  
(They’d started out with her on tip-toes and him straight-backed, and gradually her heels had stopped leaving the floor, and gradually he’d become accustomed to bending over. He’s found himself to be more flexible than previously assumed, in general.)  
  
She smells like exhaust fumes and tarmac, like the open road. And a thousand other things, the ones he’s cataloged, the cleansing and/or cosmetic chemicals she applies to herself, sweat, the sort of sandwiches-and-photocopies smell she gets after a day at work.  
  
She’s pushing him down on one of the benches. Helmet balanced on a bank of screens and buttons and knobs that do not, technically, do anything. She’s saying, _I’ve been in such a mood today. Just. Angry at everything. Couldn’t sit still. You know?_ She’s straddling him and then gracelessly slamming on top of him.  
  
The Eiffel Tower, a tour guide once told him, exerts about as much pressure on the ground as an average human male. The engineering is such that 10,000 tons is dispersed into practically nothing at all. Clara Oswald, who is approximately the size of a Tic-Tac, exerts about as much pressure on his lap as the average elephant.  
  
He flinches and wheezes and when he gets his wind back, discovers that she’s got her thighs clenched tight around his waist and his left earlobe in her mouth, discovers he’s half-hard already beneath her slowly, deliberately grinding arse.  
  
“Shut up,” she says when he tries waxing lyrical about physics. It’s meant kindly. She knows he’s got automatic defense mechanisms, she knows that he knows they’re shit, she knows he wishes he could stop pretending to run from her. It’s a vulnerability thing. They’re working on it.  
  
Maybe one day he won’t open his mouth and find historical anecdotes about Isaac Newton falling out. But for now she just tells him to shut up with a smile and her hand held steady on his jaw, pushing his head back. The switch in his head being flicked. She brushes a thumb over his lips, slides it into his mouth when he parts them. The taste of leather and gasoline, the open road. Thick and heavy on his tongue. He could narrow down, to molecules if he wanted: composition, provenance, relative location in time. But he won’t. She won’t let him. Instead, he concentrates on suppressing his gag reflex.  
  
His hands fall automatically down to his sides, gripping the worn wood of the bench. A strangled noise coming from the back of his throat.  
  
She takes her hand out, wipes it off on his shoulder. He might be drooling a little bit. She might be giggling. She pulls off his coat, and his hoodie, and his jumper, and his t-shirt, and makes a comment about Russian nesting dolls as she runs her hands over his ribcage.  
  
“Uh huh,” he says distantly.  
  
“Those aren’t dials,” he says a little less distantly, when she pinches and twists his nipples. Which isn’t to say that he doesn’t like it. She doesn’t seem much in the mood for foreplay, either way, heading quickly for his belt buckle, pulling a little more than she has to to get the clasp undone. Fumbles the button open, flies down, briefs pushed aside. The smooth, cool slide of leather along the length of his cock, cradling his balls. His fingernails digging into the wood of the bench, finding the indentations from the last time. Finding where they’d left off.  
  
She’s pursing her lips. “I wanna,” she says, and “This isn’t gonna work”, and “Do you think you could…?”  
  
There’s some awkward maneuvering and the danger of them both falling over, then he’s bent over the information panel that doesn’t function, helmet knocked unceremoniously to the floor and rolling away.  
  
(Or maybe it does function: the TARDIS appears to be going somewhere. He doesn’t really care where, although he’s faintly proud he accidentally fixed one of the thousands of things broken on this ship. The rotor chugging away and he realizes Clara is keeping time with it. Maybe they’re going to Salostopus, that’d be nice.)  
  
Her hands steady on his hips and his trousers down around his ankles. A strangled noise coming from the back of his throat. Moaning and mewling and begging when he can bother with words. Her hands on his shoulder blades, spine, tailbone.  
  
He can hear her own breath going ragged, and that’s always where he starts to lose it. Arms shaking, sweat beading. Braced against the apparently-functional navigation panel through sheer force of will, because it’s best if he can hold off until the last bit, the part she likes, where she always starts to lose it.  
  
She reaches around, between him and a button labeled PLEASE DO NOT PRESS, curls a hand around his cock, gentle but firm. Not moving, not yet.  
  
“When I say,” she reminds him. She doesn’t need to remind him. He nods anyway.  
  
A withdrawal, a pause, some hurried rustling, he busies himself by pushing the button that politely asked not to be pushed. Nothing happens, probably. He’ll figure it out later. Then he stops pushing the button, chokes a little, a full-body jerk as he feels a lube-slick finger slipping between his arse cheeks. He reminds himself to relax. He relaxes. She presses against his arsehole and then pushes inside him. The previously-agreed-upon two fingers - they’re working on it - crooking, pulling him apart from the inside. He goes blank, goes haywire, gives in to the hurt, the pleasure, to her.  
  
Her hand on his cock again, grip a little tighter now, more insistent, moving so excruciatingly slowly. She’s thrusting in sync with the time rotor. It kicks into a higher gear, so does she, relentlessly. He’s holding on, he’s waiting, he’ll keep waiting, he can do this -  
  
“Now,” Clara says. Whatever self-restraint he had vanishes. He comes, hard, spurting into her hand and over the polite button and the levers and things. It’s probably broken now again. Come to think of it, possibly that’s how it broke in the first place. Whatever. He collapses into the puddle (and the button and the levers and things) and, briefly, does not think about anything at all.  
  
“You’re such a slut”, she’s saying affectionately. Ruffling his hair - he’ll remember the shampoo this time.  
  
He scrapes himself off the panel, straightens up as much as he can. Tries to walk away with dignity, forgetting the part where it’s impossible to do more than shuffle with your trousers around your ankles, remembers belatedly as he’s falling like a felled tree to the floor.  
  
It’s okay, he’s fine.  
  
She stands over him, feet planted either side of his legs. She’s staring down. Eyes wide and glassy. The look on her face, Rassilon. His cock’s twitching back to life. She looks like she’s about to say something, then decides against it; instead just puts her hands up to her face, inhales.  
  
“Gross,” he says, but it’s not a condemnation. He’s kind of gross too.  
  
She smirks from behind her hands. Peels one glove off, tosses it behind her - the TARDIS will take care of it, thankfully, with her long-suffering patience and extensive laundry facilities. Licking his cum off the palm of the remaining glove, other hand shoved impatiently beneath her waistband, curling back between her legs. Some sort of magic going on in there, he’s never 100% sure what happens when she’s bringing herself off.  
  
(He could imagine, of course. He’s got a solid grasp on the basic mechanics. Small deft fingers on her clit, the practiced ease. She’s staring at him. He swallows, tries not to fidget.)  
  
Hips thrusting against the air - and oh, he wants to be the thing she’s thrusting against, maybe later? - teeth biting down on the fingers in her mouth, sucking on the leather, on whatever’s left of him. A shudder, a muffled gasp, her peculiarly inward orgasm. All the tension just sort of melting out of her.  
  
She looks like she’s about to help him up off the floor, then decides against it; instead flops down next to him. Rolls half on top of his belly, pats his halfheartedly half-hard cock like it’s a beloved family pet. Which, he supposes, it kind of is.  
  
“We need a shower,” she says.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Do you think the TARDIS could sort of. Roll us there?”  
  
“Haven’t installed that module yet. I think we’re gonna have to walk.”  
  
“Don’t wanna,” she says, mock-petulantly. So they stay there for a bit. It’s okay, they’re fine. Filthy and sticky but otherwise fine.  
  
The TARDIS sighs melodramatically, and waits a precisely-timed five minutes before grudgingly teleporting them to the washrooms.


End file.
